Louisiana Stalker (5 page)

The carriage stopped in front of a small house that was part of a row of small houses with not much space between them. It had two floors, and the second floor had a balcony—or what in Baton Rouge was called a “gallery,” which was a balcony supported by posts or columns that reached the ground.

“This is it, sir,” Simmons said.

Clint stepped down to the sidewalk and approached the door. Simmons didn't wait for him to go out, just flicked his reins at his horse and drove away.

The door was opened by Capucine herself, wearing a lavender robe that was tied at the waist.

“Clint,” she said, “right on time. Please, come inside.”

As he stepped past her, she surprised him by kissing him on the cheek, then closed the door behind him.

“Come with me. We can have some lunch in the back, on the patio.”

He followed her through the small but well-appointed rooms. He assumed the second floor had the bedrooms. On the first was a sitting room, a small dining room, and an even smaller kitchen.

They passed through all those rooms to an outdoor patio, furnished with wicker chairs and a matching table. The floor was made of flat slate stones. It was the kind of area he didn't see much in the West—but Louisiana was different, especially New Orleans, and now, he supposed, Baton Rouge.

“Have a seat and I will bring you some coffee,” she said. “Lunch will be here in minutes.”

“Be here?” He had noticed that there was nothing cooking in the kitchen.

“Oh, God,” she said, “I hope you didn't think I was cooking? No, no, I don't cook. I'm bringing lunch in from outside.” There was a knock at the door just then and she said, “And there it is. I'll be right back.”

As she left, he looked up, saw that there was another gallery on the back of the building, overlooking the patio. He wondered if the entire floor, front to back, was a bedroom.

When Capucine came out, she was carrying the coffee. Behind her was a man in a white waiter's jacket, carrying the food.

She put the coffeepot and cups down on the table, and the waiter laid out the food.

“What do we have here?” Clint asked.

“Po' boys, sir.”

“What?”

“That's all right,” Capucine said, “I'll explain it to Mr. Adams. You can go.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The waiter left and Capucine poured the coffee and sat down.

“These are roast beef sandwiches,” she said. “The roast beef is almost chopped up, the bread is called a baguette. It has a crisp outside crust, but a soft center.”

“Is there gravy?” he asked.

“Lots of it. Try it. You'll like it.”

He picked up the sandwich and tried to take a bite without dripping gravy all over himself. It was worth the effort.

“This is delicious.”

“I knew you'd like it.” She picked hers up and ate it like a sailor. She got gravy all over her chin, but didn't seem to mind.

“I'm glad to see you not trying to eat it like a lady,” he said.

“Believe me, you can't eat something like this with ladylike bites.”

Clint sipped the coffee and found she had made it good and strong.

“I paid attention last night, when you kept telling the waiter to make the coffee stronger. I hope it's to your liking?” she asked.

“It is,” he said. “So was your assistant, by the way.”

“Ah, you like Jeannie?”

“I liked the Jeannie who came back to my room with me,” he said. “Not so much the Jeannie who was your quiet, mousy little assistant at the restaurant.”

“So she came alive for you at your hotel?”

“Alive?” he asked around a bite of sandwich. “She was a regular little whore.”

She studied him around her sandwich, then put hers down and stared at him.

“I told her to go easy.”

“Easy?” he asked. “She almost killed me.”

“So her secret is out.”

“Cappy,” he said, “I'm afraid your secret is out. I found out some things about you.”

“Oh?” she asked. “You mean the sheriff has a great big mouth?”

“I think turnabout is fair play, don't you?” he asked.

“You're probably right,” she said. “So, what do you think you know?”

“You're a high-class madam.”

“Thank you for the ‘high-class.'”

“Does your problem have anything to do with your business?” he asked.

“Does it make a difference?”

“It does,” he said.

“Are you a prude, Mr. Adams?”

“I think you only need to talk to Jeannie—is that her real name?”

“It is.”

“Well, ask her if I'm a prude.”

“Very well,” she said. “My problem is not directly connected to my business.”

“Not directly?” he asked. “Sounds to me like you're hedging a bit.”

“Okay,” she said, “let me put it this way. I'm not exactly sure if it's connected to my business or not. That's part of what I want you to find out.”

He bit into his sandwich, chewed very deliberately, and didn't say anything.

“Just listen to my sad story,” she said. “After that, if you don't want any part of it, I'll understand.”

“So I just have to listen?”

“Right.”

“And I can finish my sandwich?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” he said, “start talking.”

“There's a man,” Capucine said.

“Isn't there always?”

“Well, actually there are two men,” she added. “The one I'm having trouble with, and the first man I tried to get to help me.”

“What was the problem with him?”

“He was more interested in helping himself.”

“To what?”

“Well, first my girls, then me, and then my husband's money. Now I can't get rid of him.”

“So you want me to do it?”

“If you can dissuade him along the way, that would be great,” she said, “but that's not my primary concern.”

“Then what is?”

“I'm being stalked.”

Join the club, he thought. It was the first time he'd thought about the man following him since the day before.

“By who?”

“I told you,” she said, “a man.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“Or what he wants?”

“No.”

“How do you know he's stalking you?”

“Because he's always there. Every time I turn around. He doesn't seem to be making a secret of it.”

“Do you think it has something to do with your business?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“Or your husband's business?”

“It could.”

“Is he being stalked, too?”

“No.”

“Have you told him you are?”

“Yes, I have,” she said. “He just thinks I'm imagining things.”

“What about the second man?” Clint asked. “Does he know about him?”

“Well . . . no.”

“Oh, I see,” Clint said. “And is he going to know about me?”

“Maybe . . . if I have to tell him.”

“Well, if I decide to help, I'll want to talk to him, see what he knows.”

“Very well, but I'll be paying you.”

“I'll remember that . . . boss.”

“So you'll do it?”

“Maybe,” he said, “maybe I will if you show me the upstairs.”

She turned in her chair and looked up, then looked back around at him.

“You want to see the upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“It's just my bedroom.”

“I like galleries,” he said. “Especially the one in the front.”

She stared at him for a few moments, then shrugged and said, “Oh, all right. Come on.”

She took him to an outer stairway so that they ended up on the back gallery.

“This do anything for you?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “I like the one in the front.”

“Okay, come on.”

The upstairs turned out to be as he'd suspected, all one room, her bedroom. She led him through it to the front, but before she could open the French doors to the gallery, he said, “Wait.”

“You said you wanted to see.”

“First I want you to see,” he said.

“See what?”

“Tell me if you see your stalker on the street,” he said. “If you spot him, let me know where he is. Then I'll step out and have a look.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “All right.”

She opened the doors.

“Do it casually.”

“All right.”

She stepped outside, leaned on the railing, looked both ways, then looked up, as if she were just taking the breezes on her face. It felt like rain to Clint, like any minute.

She came back in.

“There's a man there, but it's not him.”

“Did you see his face?”

“Well, no, I haven't ever seen his face.”

“Then how do you know this isn't him?”

“He has a distinctive build, sort of blocky. Plus when he sees me looking at him, he always steps out into the open.”

“Then who is this?”

“Lee Keller,” she said. “He's the man I told you I thought might help me.”

“And he became a problem.”

She nodded.

“So you've got two men stalking you.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, where is he?”

“Off to the right, across the street, and several doors down.”

“All right,” Clint said. “Wait here.”

He stepped out onto the gallery and looked around. The breeze on his face told him there was definitely rain coming, and probably a lot of it. He looked left first, then up, then looked off to the right where she said the man was. He saw someone standing in a doorway, but he didn't step out, he stayed put. But Clint could see his blocky size.

He turned and went back in.

“Okay, I got him,” Clint said. “You wait here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to try and end it right now,” Clint said. “Stay inside, don't go out on the gallery. In fact, stay in this room until I get back.”

“Wait,” she said. “Do you have a gun?”

“I do,” he said, taking the Colt New Line from the back of his belt.

“That little thing?”

“It's not the size of the gun that matters,” he said. “But don't worry, if the job goes on from today, I'll start wearing my holster and Colt. Now stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He went downstairs.

Clint went down the way he had come, the outside stairway in the back, and then worked his way to the front of the building. He risked a look out onto the street. The neighborhood was quiet and there was no foot traffic to speak of. He could see the doorway in question from where he was, but he didn't know if the man could see him.

He had come around the right side of the building, which had been a mistake. He decided to go back the way he had come, and work his way around to the left side. From there he walked down the street, away from the man in the doorway, then crossed over. On the same side of the street now, he kept as close to the buildings as possible and started making his way toward the doorway. If he could catch the man, he could end the whole business right there and then for Capucine.

He had moved the Colt from the back of his belt to the front. Now, as he approached the doorway, he put his hand on the gun, ready to draw it if the man was armed.

Finally, he was one doorway away and he moved quickly. When he got to the doorway in question, it was empty. The man must have seen him coming.

He looked at Capucine's building and saw her out on the gallery. That was what had happened. She had come out to see what was going on, and had tipped the man off by doing so.

Shaking his head, Clint crossed the street and walked back to the building.

 • • • 

The man watching Capucine was indeed named Lee Keller. He made his living with his hands and his gun. He'd heard that Capucine Devereaux was looking for help, and went to see her. She had hired him, but by then he was obsessed with her. He wanted her, and he started hanging around her, making no bones about the fact that he was crazy about her. She wasn't having it, though, and had finally fired him, because he had not done the job. His lust for her had robbed him of his ability to do so.

And he hadn't been able to shake it off. He wasn't working now; he was just watching her, waiting for his opportunity to step in and make her his. And he was making no secret of it. Whenever he could, he let her know he was there.

When he saw her on the gallery the first time, he'd stepped out of the doorway. Then another man appeared. Was this someone else she was hiring now? He didn't know the man on sight, and he ducked back into the doorway so the man couldn't see him.

But it was easy to see that the man was trying to get a look at him. When he withdrew from sight, and then Capucine came back out on the gallery, it wasn't hard to figure out what the man was planning to do.

Keller decided not to have a showdown with this man until he knew who he was. So he left the doorway and walked hurriedly up the street.

By the time Clint Adams had come out onto the street, Keller was already gone.

 • • • 

Clint went up the stairs, met Capucine as she came out onto the back gallery.

“What did I tell you?” he asked.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I wanted to see what was happening. I saw him run up the street, but I didn't want to call out to you.”

“It didn't matter,” he said. “You'd already tipped him off that something was up. He decided not to wait to find out what.”

“Do you think he knows who you are?”

“I hope not,” Clint said. “I'd like to keep that our secret for a while.”

“So what should we do now?”

“I think we have to be ready to spend a lot of time together.”

She pulled at the tie on her robe and said, “I think that can be arranged.”